He hated his life incredibly deeply
So he resigned from it incredibly meekly
He wrote poetry with passion so seething
That late evening paramours would recite it so deeply
Suicidal sons would read on and keep breathing
Loathsome lovers would repent for their cheating
His words float without effort, masterfully  perceiving
Of the harsh and real yet ensorcelled and believing
The lost and the ****** with one glance would find meaning
In a world so berift of love
Who knew when his bullet, right temple and pulled it, from the left side would fly a dove

You weep
But the garden laughs

Drink up, Mister Bailey,
Your scotch has lips paler than yours
And the moon is howling brighter
Than the shine of a dime
Spent on the sweet succor
Of the candied poison
You still suckle,
Splendid as the white hot stars that
Scream maddening blindness
Into the silent pitch
And the depthless pools of black
In your surrendering eyes.

Drink up, Mister Bailey,
The wolves are back,
Backed by bleeding broods
Brooding in the bar;
It isn’t just your wistful warped
Reflection dimmed by dirt
In the half-chipped mirror
Behind the bar.
The warmth in your belly
Is the gift of ghouls and gods
Whose promises of the world
Died like your deadbeat dad.

Drink up, Mister Bailey,
Red Riding Hood’s put on her rouge,
She’s inviting you to tango
On the sordid street corner,
Begging you to hit a green light, gyrate,
And pass ‘go’ while you’re still lucid,
Lucky lord of the lost, you.
But you’re a day drinker, darling and ******,
And the fogs and fears serve to
Mend your mind
When the moon refuses
To rise.

She has hair that glows neon
In the midnight chill of the mind.
It blacks out her face from memory
Like the lace of a
Wedding veil dream catcher
Spun like spider silk
To bind her blind.

And she wears polka-dotted
Cigarette scars on painted,
Sallow, yellowed skin,
And her heart is made of patchwork,
Some pieces lovingly stitched,
Some loose,
Some worn,
Some dotted with blood from
Hazy misaimed needles.

She’s swathed in Virginia silk,
A feast for the eyes,
A feast for the moths,
And as gauzy as
Bandages, as gauzy as
The swirling darkness of her mind
As it whispers
Frightening, beautiful thoughts
From behind her button-black eyes.

She needs mending, she says,
Needle against her skin and
Eyes shining like marbles.
She needs loving, she says,
Stuffing herself with OxyContin
Laced with lies like the lace of a
Wedding veil dreamcatcher
Spun like spider silk
To bind her blind.

i am the shattered glass, cold on the ***** floor
swept and disposed of because i can't be used anymore.
my pieces are scattered, ruined and cracked, unable to be fixed, unable to revert to intact.
i am a tainted shard, scratching and severing all that i touch
with jagged edges, i seem to pierce and graze the ones that i love.
pieces of me have dispersed left and right, pieces of me that i cannot retrieve nor can i rectify.
and after you swept me off of the cold, ***** floor
you simply selected another glass, so you could break it once more.

а воз и ныне там, Nothing has changed,
и а воз и ныне там, Yes, nothing has changed.

Little ****** with your
Parted lips and
      Parted thighs,

хотели как лучше, а получилось как всегда,
The best, darling, I only wanted the best.

Lovely Little ****** Lady
Batting your
      Lively ****** eyes,

за красивые глаза,
Is there anything you would not do for me?

Little ****** with your
Candy apple
      Lollipop sighs,

больное место,
How easily fruit bruises.

Lovely Little ****** Lady
Wearing your
      Dollhouse disguise,

а воз и ныне там, Nothing has changed,
и а воз и ныне там, Yes, nothing has changed.

Little ****** with your
Frozen beauty,
      Winter skies,

бабье лето,
And also my Indian Summer.

Lovely Little ****** Lady,
Sorrowful Delores,
      Smile, my prize,

не вешать нос,
Love me as I love you.

Little ****** with your
Soft little
      ****** cries,

Lovely Little ****** Lady,
Why do your eyes
      Bleed with such despise?

а воз и ныне там, Nothing has changed,
и а воз и ныне там, *Yes, nothing has changed.

No battle is won by merely one man
It is won in the blood stained garments of many
It is not dictated by the resolve in his final stand
But the impact of the burden carried by all, on every step of the journey

“Battles”-JP